as possible. Madame le Marchant, however, was not so easily comforted; her vivid imagination already pictured her son, shedding his blood on the battle-field, without a helping hand near to save, or a pitying eye to watch over him.

She returned to her cottage, which was situated on the high road, leading from the pretty town of Avranches, in Normandy. There, seated at her lace-pillow (a cushion on which lace is mado in France), she waited, with as much fortitude and patience as possible, the issue of the terrible war.

François had in the meantime been sent to Paris, and on the 25th of July he marched through the streets of the metropolis to the Eastern Railway station, from whence the troops proceeded to the seat of war. The capital was in a state of intense excitement; the Boulevards were crowded with friends, relatives, and many others, who wished to congratulate_the country's noble defenders. They all embraced each other; the air was filled with the enthusiastic cries of the people, and everywhere the three-coloured flag was hoisted. The shopkeepers ran into the streets with wine, sausages, and cigars,— literally forcing them upon the soldiers. François felt as if he were already a great hero; for the fifteenth time he had been embraced by a perfect stranger. Holding his Chassepot high in the air, he cried, "To Berlin!-Death to the Prussians!"

A month has passed. Le Marchant, with MacMahon's army, retreats from Chalons, which had to be evacuated on account of the approach of the Crown Prince's active forces. They march through Rheims on to Mezières, and after a few days, on emerging from the forest, they come upon the enemy. On the 30th of August a terrible battle rages near Carignan; and towards night the French, who had

tried to advance, are thrown back upon the heights of Vaux. There François' regiment, whose lines were much thinned, re-assembles; permission is given to bivouac, and the fatigued and discouraged men throw themselves down on the hard ground, and are soon fast asleep.

But early the next morning the reveille is heard: at five o'clock already the fight had re-commenced in the direction of Armigny, near the Belgian frontiers. F. Le Marchant is hardly awake before he finds himself with his company in line of battle, receiving and answering the fire from the Prussians, who, sheltered by the neighbouring wood, are steadily advancing. The men fall like flies on every side before the deadly needlegun. Soon after, the artillery takes up its position on the hill to the left, and opens a well-directed fire on the French. Now the signal for retreat is given. The way leads across a ploughed field. A wounded comrade cries to François for help; he stoops down to support him. Suddenly there is a fearful explosion close to them, which throws them both upon the ground. A shell has burst; his friend is killed, and François' arm is shattered.

Acting on the first impulse to follow his company, the confused youth is just trying to raise himself, when he espies a troop of cuirassiers preparing for another attack. While rattling past the place where he is lying, a horse and its rider are struck with a ball; the rider falls down dead; the poor beast stumbles, rolls over, rises again, loses its balance, and falls with its full weight upon Francois' legs. A groan of intense pain, and François becomes unconscious.

He must have remained in this state for a long time, for, when his consciousness returned, the shadows of evening were already creeping in. His first feeling was that of tor

menting thirst, and then the pain in his arm reminded him of the wound he had received: he tried to raise himself upon his hands, but the weight on his legs made every movement impossible. He, however, managed to free himself from his knapsack, and succeeded in finding a few rags in it, which enabled him to stop the bleeding and to bind up the wound. His next thought was how he might obtain water. He looked around, but, as far as his eyes could reach, he saw no one who could have rendered him any assistance. There were numberless dead bodies lying about. Many of the wounded were delirious, and all were crying for water. It had evidently rained, for his clothes were wet. Oh that the clouds would again send forth some refreshing showers! He saw the helmet of a horseman lying beside him, and turned it round in order to use it as a cup if it should rain again. He closed his eyes; and his thoughts carried him away to his mother. He remembered how tender she had always been when, as a boy, anything ailed him; how loving in her care when he had been hurt. It occurred to him how once, when he had climbed up an appletree and fallen down, she had said to him, while binding up his torn hand: “Oh, François, my dear little son, may you never receive a worse wound than this one; but should that be the case, oh that I might then be permitted to be near, and take care of you." "But, mother,” he had replied, "if you were not near, and I had to suffer great pain ? " "My son," she had answered, "then God would be near you to help you;" and with these words-he remembered them well-she had kissed him on both his cheeks.

He opened his eyes-the stars looked down upon the bloody battlefield; he glanced around him-no invalid carriage, no sign of help near! His poor crushed limbs,

almost frozen with the damp cold of the night, caused him the most violent pain; and still that was nothing compared to the burning thirst raging within him. "O God!" he cried, "lessen my misery, or take my life!" An answer seemed to come: he fell asleep, and did not awake until daylight, when the rain, beating into his face, woke him. Eagerly he stretched out his hand for the helmet; it was three parts full! While he tried to lift it with one hand, it slipped out of his fingers, and the greater part of the water was spilt. Still, enough remained to quench his fearful thirst a little.

But now he heard the rifles firing, and soon he heard the earth tremble with the thunder of the cannons. Another battle was being carried on-another field bestrewn with wounded and corpses. The thought occurred to him-"Will the tumult come nearer ? Will the cavalry again gallop past, and a horse's hoof put an end to my suffering?" Then his spirit reverted to the exciting scenes in Paris, and he involuntarily repeated the verse

"Mourir pour la patrie,

C'est le sort le plus beau
Le plus digne d'envie."

(To die for the fatherland is the most glorious and enviable fate.) "No, no!" he cried; "to live for France would be a thousand times more enviable than to die for her in this way."

The sound of approaching steps again roused him. God be praised! Help is appearing at last! Τπο villagers came up; they bent over François, and lifted up his head. "God bless you, my friends!" the wounded man murmured. But, oh, what wretches! Is it possible? Yes, it is true! they have not come to rescue, but to rob! While the one raised him, the other felt for his little silver cross-a gift from his mother—and took possession of

But help is near.

The neutral powers of Europe had tried in vain to mediate between the two belligerents; they were, alas! not able to stop the war, but they could at least offer assistance to those who had fallen in battle; they could take them to safe places of refuge, they could nurse them and take care of them. The International Company in England soon set to work. Their proclamation, supported by influential personages, met with a general response, and gifts of money and material came in from every part of Great Britain. In a very short time, the excellent president of the committee was.enabled to announce that the contributions in money amounted to £200,000; that more than sixty doctors and sixteen lady-nurses were employed in the armies; and that, every day, three tons weight of materials were sent into the line of battle, or wherever it was most needed. A good work, thoroughly begun, was also being thoroughly carried out.

It was a lovely afternoon in beautiful Lorraine. The sun, which had for

many days hid its face, once more shed its bright rays abroad, extending its mission of love upon every side. It beamed upon the hills, and the valleys were all aglow in its warm light. It would willingly have shone upon the more distant fields; but nature, as if ashamed of revealing with what they were covered, quickly drew a dark veil of clouds before its face, and thus hid the ghastly spectacle. But now it comes to a village-a miserable, half-burnt place; but a village. There are a few smoking ruins of what once had been houses. Other cottages are still standing, but they are full of, holes and blackened with the shots of cannon

balls. Some have scarcely been touched; but the streets bear the traces of the sword and of fire-of massacre, and of the awful struggle of death. Some trees, forming an avenue in the chief street, are green on one side and seared on the other. The sunbeam hurries on to a high house with a stone façade, which stands a little back. And here it finds work, which it does with pleasure, and for the execution of which it unites itself with the gentle breeze, which happens to come that way. Then it skips up the wall, and casts a flood of joy and happiness into an open window. Through this window the sunbeam and the zephyr enter the room. It is a lofty apartment, and the walls are covered with a light paper. On the well-scrubbed floors stand a dozen beds, in which sick and wounded are lying. The sun shines upon their pale, haggard, patient faces, and the wind fans them with its cool breath.

There is a young fellow who was brought in on a stretcher last week.

The men who had carried him said they had great trouble in lifting his body from the ground. They had found a dead horse lying across his thighs. His right arm was shattered. He was unconscious. It

had then been three days after the action in which he and his comrades had fallen. Carefully they carried him in, and laid him upon a bed. Some suitable remedies that were

given him revived him a little. The nurse in attendance upon him spoke words of tender comfort to him, such as only a woman can speak to the sick. He seemed to listen now, and his voice trembled. "Mother,' he said, ". 'your prayer is answered; for you prayed, that when I should be weary, you might be near to comfort and console me, as you now do; and it is true, mother, I am very badly wounded-yes, badly wounded," he repeated, and opened his eyes. For a few moments he gazed about him, as if bewildered;

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but then at once apologised, with the courtesy so natural to the French: "I beg your pardon a thousand times, mademoiselle; I thought I had heard the voice of my dear mother." "No, not your mother, my dear boy," the nurse answered; "but if you like, your sister!" The English physician examined him, and declared the arm must be taken off above the elbow, and asked him whether he would have chloroform. He declined. He bore the operation without wincing. Then he took the amputated limb into his left hand, kissed it, and said: "With this hand I have supported my poor old mother," and for the first time the tears rolled down his cheeks. And there, after six days, he is still lying. The doctor is doubtful about him, on account of the crushing weight that had been laid upon him for so many days. He has suffered much, and with great patience. This afternoon the pain has almost left him, but his heart is sad and weary. From the bed on which he lies, he sees through the window the clear blue sky and the tips of the fruit trees, and feels the breath of heaven upon his cheek. The sight of nature touches him. Before long his nurse, the English lady, appears. "My sister," he says, offering her his hand, "does not God hate this world on account of all the sin we bring into it?" She replied, "No; He does not hate the world-He loves it." Then she takes a little book out of her pocket, opens it, and reads the glorious declaration of our Lord: "God so loved the world, that He gave His only begotten Son." "That does not look like hatreddoes it?" she asks, and is just going to continue, but some other wounded soldiers, who have been brought in, demand her presence; she, therefore, marks the place, puts the book into his hand, and leaves him. François looks at the binding. "Yes," he murmurs, "it must be true; it is the Word of the God of Mercy Him

self." He repeats: "So loved the world, that He gave His only begotten Son." He holds the book up to his eyes, but he cannot read for tears. "He has given His only begotten Son," he reiterates. Once more he lifts up the book; the corner of the turned down leaf points to the promise which he reads: "That whosoever believeth in Him should not perish, but have everlasting life." "So let it be, Lord," he cries; "thou sayest whosoever believethoh, save me also!"

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A Prussian soldier near him looked up; he had heard, but could not understand it. But there was One who did understand. The prayer was short-he had no strength for a longer one; but while he was still weak, the answer came, and the concluding words of that great Word of Christ became for him a command: "He shall have everlasting life." Peace was at once concluded. There was entire surrender, and the riches of eternal life were bestowed upon him-rest, freedom, and love were his eternal portion.

The physician makes his last round for the night, accompanied by the nurse. He comes and looks

at François. The one hand that the wounded soldier still has, is clasping a little book, which he has pressed to his heart. There is a smile upon his lips. It is, perchance, the afternoon's sunbeam that is still lingering there! Or is it the reflection of the glory of the Sun of Righteousness, into which he has gazed?

"I wish they were all as quiet as he seems to be; put the shade before the lamp; we will not disturb him; it will go well with him to-night."

Yes! it will, indeed, go well with him. In two short hours the pearly gates of the golden city of peace are thrown wide open, the Great Phy. sician takes François by the handhe enters! Verily it is well with him!